Dystopian Curse

My next substantial piece of writing is way overdue.

People keep asking me if I am writing a new book. No. But I should be.

The trouble is, I want it to be funny. I am pretty good at making people laugh, usually just by saying something unexpected. Something other than the “how are you?” “fine” kind of stuff.

These ambitions are daunted, subdued, quashed by two factors.
       
First, the enormously depressing news of what is going on in our world. It’s as if news reports were written by Margaret Atwood or George Orwell. It seems irresponsible to write something fluffy.
     
Second, I too often let the enormously depressing news quash my own sense of humor.

However, I do understand why Hollywood pumped out lots of lighthearted movies during the Depression. When they were so urgently needed. That’s an important precedent. But someone on the West Coast must have been buoyed by more ebullience than I can muster… most days.

Writing dystopian tales seems the only logical response to current events.
And they are not funny. At all.

Still, I keep trying. I’ve even invented a character, Gertrude, who (just a coincidence) is experiencing with ironic humor all the indignities of getting old… alone.

So I will persevere. I will take a walk and actually look at the beauty around me. I will eat a piece of chocolate. And snuggle with my cat. And write another damn paragraph full of wit and good cheer.

Amen.

Side Benefits

There are side benefits to being sick.

I have the croup but now that the cough and pain are medicated, I am not really suffering. The medicine makes me drowsy so I can’t drive. But I can take an afternoon nap. And do a lot of reading.

I’m contagious so I can’t go to any kind of gathering. But I can stay in touch via email -- (not telephone until my voice recovers).

And my cats are apparently taking turns checking in and cuddling so I have a modicum of affection.

This is my second day of required bed (and couch and chair) rest. I’ll put up with it one more day then, assuming restored health, I’ll venture out into the world again.

But, for now, it’s a nice respite.

Except for the fact that this happens to be the most beautifully perfect spring day ever and I am inside.

Still. I have windows – five of which are open to admit gentle breezes. And all of which afford views of nascent leaves and rainbows of flowers. I can hear the delighted bird song and watch an addled squirrel’s acrobatics among the branches of the tree outside my window.

It’s not so bad.

Health will be better. I wish it for all of us.

Herbie and Guinness

My cats are a huge part of my life so it is time to introduce them. I adopted them in November 2002 – about seven years and seven months ago. Herbie was about two back then, the color of butter-rich cream with strawberry blonde ears and markings. His eyes are pale blue and his fur is intensely soft. Guinness was just one, a brown tabby with golden eyes. (He doesn’t look brown, more like dark gray with white around his mouth and chin, like a pint of Guinness with a fine head of foam.) He came home first. Herbie hadn’t had his operation. (The Humane Society insists on castration.)

While Herbie was suffering surgical indignities, Guinness and I bonded. Prisms hang in my east windows casting morning rainbows that fascinated Guinness. I was fascinated by his fascination, sitting on the floor with him on my lap, both of us in our own ways saying ‘wow.’

When at last I could bring Herbie home, I had to keep him in isolation. Both cats had slight respiratory infections and were supposed to take antibiotics. But isolation and occasional drops of antibiotics get old. On the third day after Herbie’s arrival, I opened the doors to their respective rooms. And they met.

Guinness noticed Herbie first. Herbie was a bit overwhelmed by all the new territory. Guinness did everything but juggle to get some kind of response beyond a cursory sniff from the bigger, more glamorous cat. Wherever Herbie went, Guinness trotted along behind, eager and friendly. And ignored.

Herbie just needed time. As he began to feel comfortable with a particular room he would rest there a while. First the TV room, then the living room. After several hours, he was ready to follow me upstairs. My bed skirt may have been the final arbiter. When golden paws poked out from under the bed toward the little gray tabby counterparts, contact was made.

It was explosive. They scrambled through the house in tandem for half an hour. Later, as the games subsided, Guinness presented Herbie with a catnip mouse.

They were home and we were family.